The thing is: the more people you know read you, the less you can write freely. You’re always wondering whether they’ll understand what you’re talking about, if they’re gonna think you’re talking about them… It’s like your free space of free talk and reflexion suddenly becomes a public place where everybody stares at you. It’s like whatever you say is analyzed, dissected, used—against you most of the time. Am I seriously supposed to say here how more than ever I feel distressed at times and I’d like to be with—no, to have someone beside me, how I missed someone stroking my hair tonight at the theater, how I hated the way they talked about the sky and nonsenses just after the movie ended, when I had a hard time breathing naturally and finding my rhythm again? Is this the place to be true, whatever true means? Am I expected—and by whom?—to spill my heart out on here?

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C’est dangereux ce que tu as fait. Mais tu ne le sais pas. J’ai retrouvé le goût de lire. Cette faculté de m’absorber — d’être absorbée — entièrement par un texte. Comme on est absorbé, intégré, ingéré par le Londres d’en-bas, et que c’est tellement dur d’émerger ensuite.

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I’ve lost it because of Rome. Ca me frappe comme une évidence.